


We Live in Interesting Times

by zetsubou69



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Gen, Prompt Fill, tags will get added as i upload more chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-01-05 15:58:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21211214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubou69/pseuds/zetsubou69
Summary: What if Peter didn't get offered an apprenticeship and Lesley was the one to start learning magic in 2011? What if he lost his face instead of her? What if Martin Chorley ruled in the Folly - where would the Nightingale be?And what about everyone else?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [LittleMissOverlord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissOverlord/pseuds/LittleMissOverlord) in the [Rivers_of_London_Prompt_Meme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Rivers_of_London_Prompt_Meme) collection. 

> __**Prompt:**  
Role Reversal AU: Peter convinces Lesley to go ghost hunting with him, and while he's off getting coffee, she's approached by DCI Martin Chorley. Lesley's the one who's offered an apprenticeship, Peter gets sent to Arts & Fraud. After the Covent Garden riots, Lesley throws herself into her training in the hope of finding a magical cure for Peter's destroyed face, not noticing or maybe not caring how much of her mentor's worldview she's absorbing along the way. Peter, in the meantime, meets a mysterious and well-dressed gentleman who claims to know someone who can restore his face. During the search for the ever-elusive Lady Helena Linden-Limmer, who seems to have gone into hiding somewhere in London, however, Peter discovers a whole new world beneath the city he thought he knew, and just what his dear friend Lesley has to do with it.  
Basically what I'd love to see is Still Terrible Martin Chorley, but this time with the police force behind him, go up against Little Crocodile Thomas Nightingale, who not only trained to mastership under a newtonian practitioner, but also regularly spars with Varvara and the Ladies Helena and Caroline. Also, Peter, now in the situation Lesley was, debating whether or not the methods of facial reconstruction offered to him can even be (ethically) justified. Also - how do Molly, her sisters, and the Rivers fit into this?
> 
> Changes to the prompt:  
Thomas Nightingale is not one of Little Crocodiles and has never been.  
Peter is in Case Procession Unit, because it suits me.

They say that some events such a big injury always make people reconsider their lives. Then those people end up doing Bono or Al Gore level of good deeds. But I was no Malala. I wished. After my therapist and my mother put enough of common sense in my brain during the post surgeries period that I disregarded all my suicidal thoughts – yes I am big enough boy to admit this shit to myself – I asked myself, what am I still good for? And then I promptly got back to work.

While the Arts and Antiques were happy to work with me again, they could not in good faith send me to galleries to be their crime-solving poster boy. Thus they hid me away in the Case Procession Unit. At first, I wanted to cry. This exactly was the job I so wanted to avoid year ago, but then they cushioned it with a tiny rent-controlled flat, so I didn’t have to live with other constables at the nick. More importantly, I did not have to live with my parents and that eased a very heavy burden off my shoulders.

But now I had my very own space where I can walk around mask-less, not worried that I’d scare off any neighbours. And I could bike to work, which helped my stamina much. I had to choose the gym hours if I didn’t want to scare my colleagues much. My therapist said it is all in my head and if they couldn’t face an acid attack victim they didn’t belong to police force, but I was not there yet. Especially since I was not an acid attack victim.

But my therapist didn’t know that.

The official story was that during the Covent Garden riots an unidentified rioter had attacked a police officer with acid and caused him third-degree burns and serious disfigurement. I didn’t remember much of those events. I knew I had been there as an official entourage to some higher-ups who needed a driver in a uniform that was not completely dumb when asked about art. One of them had been legendary DCI Seawoll whom I allegedly shot with a tranquillizer dart. Where I’d got those, I had no idea. Allegedly it also saved his life, because someone planned on hanging him, but moving a man of his size was no easy task.

But I digress. This was not even where that story began. I guess I should have known something was out to get me when I was patrolling around that headless corpse and took a statement from a ghost. A real see-through, been-dead-for-decades ghost. I was good at seeing the things that weren’t obviously there and connecting the dots, but the ghost had been really hard to explain. Especially to Lesley who laughed at me at first. But then we checked HOLMES and all the facts were there. And there was no other way I could have got them. So she had gone ghost hunting with me.

While I’d been getting us coffee, because February in London is cold and unfriendly, she got recruited by Met’s special ops unit. Shows my luck, retrospectively.

There were no more ghosts for me to see, just a transfer to Arts and Antiques unit where I connected the dots, did the paperwork, rubbed elbows with more or less important people and used my knowledge of architecture and art to impress and entertain my colleagues (as much as a lowly copper could).

Until the ghost struck again at the opera, where he staged a life-changing play. Few more people were hurt in the following riots, I saw Lesley and her new governor do real magic, and that ghost I first mentioned? It sequestered me and ripped off my face. Or so I've been told.

More than a kick in the balls if you’d ask me. And my therapist did. Well, she asked about other stuff and I talked about as much as I can. It helped.

That’s how I ended up here, filling in forms and dotting the i-s and crossing the t-s trying my best to think forward while sitting in a nondescript office when Jeremy and Patrick, fellow Case Procession Unit slaves, turn to me.

“Hey, Peter, Is it right that Lord Grant is doing music again?” Jeremy asked. He was a quite short white stocky guy in his early thirties, with a pinkish hue to his skin. It wasn’t helped much by his blond hair he started to grow long a few months ago, fortunately, he had not yet turned out to be Boris Johnson’s bad copy, so nobody commented on his bad haircut. He was also quite a jazz enthusiast. Both he and Patrick were. Probably because they invested their classical education that included extra music lessons into covering various jazz pieces with few other guys in their free time. As far as colleagues go, I couldn’t have asked for anything better. I already had cool points because of who my dad is and since they saw me wearing my mask, I also had the tough points, because cops gossiped as much as mum's friends and relatives.

I must have seemed too focused on paper-shuffling because Patrick repeated Jeremy’s question.

I hummed affirmingly.

“Yeah. He’s having a gig next week.”

There was nothing much like having your kid be mutilated. Dad found it a great opportunity to rethink his life, slightly lower the volume of medicinal drugs he used, grab a keyboard and start doing music again with few other chaps. According to my mum, they were unsurprisingly good and people should be paying them for it. And because every paying member of the audience is good I gave guys the name of the club dad will be playing at.

“Thanks, mate. I know you said you don’t know if you’re going yet, but how about we also grab David from the next office and we all go?” one of them offered and I froze.

I avoided going to public places for very obvious reasons. I felt like a freak and it took me a very long time to be comfortable walking about Charring Cross nick and ignore occasional stares. Especially since I once caught them calling me the Faceless Man haunting the nick.

But what would my therapist say?

“Sure, even if you only want me so you don’t have to call an Uber afterwards,” I joked half-heartedly. My face might be a mess but magically – pun intended – my eyesight remained untouched and good so they had no way to take my licence away.

*

By the time we got to the jazz bar, there was quite a crowd gathering inside. I believed dad must love it. The guys took their seats, I said hi to dad and his friends and then disappeared off for beers, so that I didn’t have to talk jazz. On my way to the bar, I breathed in a draft of sweet perfume, something flowery or oriental. It made me stumble. It made my blood rush faster, sweat gathered on my forehead, and my throat was suddenly dry. The perfume reminded me of the last time I was lying on a bed with someone intimately, I mused, as I leaned against the bar.

“Phantom of the opera at a jazz concert? I thought it’s still quite some time until Halloween,” a loud voice tore me out of my daydreaming.

“Acid attack. On Halloween I’ll cosplay black Deadpool maskless,” I shot back before I turned around. I got to regret my sharp reply right away. Standing in front of me was the tallest black girl I’ve ever met, all pretty shapes and a scarf covering her hair.

“Well, it will certainly leave an impression,” she replied.

I introduced myself and found out that Awa was just grabbing drinks for her friends. She also was here only because of someone else and jazz bar would not be her choice if it were her turn to pick a place. We chatted a bit until it was our turn to order beers and a soda for me, and some complicated drinks for her.

“See you round,” she told me and I said it back to her and grabbed my glasses, feeling significantly better than when I came here.

I knew that my Tinder and Grinder days were over, but it was so nice to get some human interaction outside of family and work. My therapist would be proud of me.

I brought the drinks to guys who thanked me and said one of them would get them next time. As the music started playing my fingers tapped the rhythm and familiar melodies rang in my head and filled in the breaks between the songs that would otherwise be filled only with cheers and clapping.

The day ended in a boring way. I thought I saw Awa as we were leaving a bar, accompanied by a well-dressed white couple in their forties and two drunk younger white girls, but then Jeremy grabbed my shoulder to get my attention and off I went giving the guys a lift.

*

The next morning a curious report ended up on my table, waiting to be processed. A man had died of a heart attack. It would seem to be a relatively ordinary death, if there even were such things, but there were two things that made it unusual. Firstly, I recognized Cyrus Wilkinson as a jazzman. I remembered him visiting his dad after he announced he’s going to revive his career. At that time, I had been out of the hospital for few weeks only, looking more like a bandaged videogame zombie than human, and looking for anything I could focus on instead – so cataloguing someone else’s visitors it was.

Secondly, there was a note about the Economic and Special Crime unit taking over the case, and that all follow-ups should be reported to Police Constable Lesley May of the ESC unit.

Lesley had been avoiding me quite successfully ever since I was hospitalized. She visited me once, to show her support, but back then I had just a sketchbook and black marker to write with – writing took ages and was not the best tool to communicate.

We’d gone out for a walk and she’d spent the time talking very vaguely about how the world was bigger and more dangerous than I knew. How there were monsters and monster-like people that we ignored because they had the power to make us do so.

It made her sound so pretentious. But then she said she was looking into the thing that stole my face. And she says she was going to try her damn best to find out how to fix it. If only I could believe her.

To be fair to her, after she told me she was going to be very busy I did not reach out either. She might have called me dumb but I knew when a girl did not want my attention.

But this time it was not about us.

So I picked up my phone and dialled up her number.

“May,” she answered the second ring in.

“It’s Peter,” I replied, in my still bit rough voice and enjoyed the predictable silence. “I just got a very interesting report on my table. A jazz player is dead and you signed off the investigation as closed. Why did you investigate a heart attack, Lesley?”

More silence followed. I could have imagined her breathing on the other side of the phone call.

“It’s classified, Peter. Just type in the redacted version, and me and my superior officer will keep on doing our jobs,” she replied, carefully considering each word. I could read her like that, despite what she said about me being a not good enough cop.

“So it was a murder then?”

“It was something that will not happen again. Don’t push it, Peter, there are things I’m not allowed to tell you.”

I sighed and played it a bit.

“Throw me a bone, Lesley, at least something. I’m stuck here double-checking reports and signing them off until the end of the world, I can hardly get in trouble when I’m neither in the field nor dealing with the public,” I pushed.

And she gave in. She must have been still feeling quite remorseful over not visiting me quite a while and I was probably still in her vague friend category.

“It was our case. Something that looked like young women were sucking out life out of musicians. We have no idea why they chose those, but we’ve dealt with them all now. You may not put that in any report, Peter, or Chorley is going to skin you alive. And I think he knows how.”

I made a sound of amazement.

“Sucking out life?” I repeated.

“Like a mutated vampire,” she confirmed.

“Jazz vampires. Who would guess,” I hummed and then I took a look at the calendar. Her birthday was in three weeks, which meant she was at ESC for a year and a half now.

“Can we schedule a cinema night, a month from now? I might even save up for a proper birthday gift,” I tried asking her. This time last year, we’d gone to a cinema together, I still had my face, and all was looking kind of rosy. I knew she was not going to date me, but I loved having a friend.

“I’ll try to pencil it in and I’ll let you know by the end of the week, alright?” she replied, her voice strangely soft.

“Thanks, Les. I’m looking forward to it.”

“So am I. And for what it’s worth, I am still looking into the healing options, as much as I get the chance to. Chorley says it’s a lost cause. But, there’s also a place full of information, and if we get there and understand that all, I hope to be able to fix you.”

“Lesley, you’re a bloody good cop, but I got doctors now. Take care,” I told her, my voice breaking. She knew how to play my emotions in unexpected ways, as always.

She told me to say hi to my mum and hanged up, and I was for once very happy no one could see me weep behind my mask.

*

In the afternoon, there was a doctor’s appointment. Well, several of them. There was a meet up over the muscles and nerves in my face, which were slowly atrophying – not good news for me. I tried my best to exercise my facial muscles but there was only so much you can do with things that were not working or were as stiff as good leather soles. We discussed other options and my doctor talked about some hot-shot Czech plastic surgeon in Boston who replaced faces now, but there was always a problem with who would donate a face to me – it wasn’t something people wanted to live without.

Then there was a therapist appointment later, one that I was eagerly looking forward to, because I was enough of a self-aware baby to know that I had a trauma I hadn’t fully processed yet. Even if I was quite functional nowadays. 

The secretary ushered me into the office and asked me to wait for a few minutes before the doctor would be back from her break. So I made myself comfortable in one of the gloriously comfortable armchairs Dr Chadwick kept there and used the spare minute to massage my saggy cheeks. I’d been told it improved the blood circulation and to be honest, I just hoped I’d feel more than just mild pressure and discomfort when I touched my face.

A knock on the door was just enough warning for me to get my mask back on before the door opened and someone who obviously was not an elderly white lady stepped in and closed the door behind himself.

It was a white man in his forties, about one-eighty in height, his dark hair cut into an old fashioned side parting. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored midnight blue pinstripe suit that emphasised the width of his shoulders and a trim waist and his shoes looked handmade. He had the face of a film star and a voice to match it. It gave me shivers like winter chills on early January mornings. I must have also imagined the fresh smell of forest; my therapist preferred just very mild flowery scents, and a man dressed like this would never wear a perfume that’s too strong.

“Mr Grant, I was hoping for a moment of your time before Dr Chadwick arrives.”

I also thought I could only hear this clear pronunciation in old movies but he proved me wrong.

“Sure,” I nodded. I quickly checked my mask would hold in place and dropped my hands down. “What’s it about?” I asked, hoping that he was not a journalist looking for a scoop. He looked too good for that.

“I believe that what Martin Chorley has done to you is unforgivable and I wish to offer my help,” he stated earnestly.

I blinked, twice, not believing what I’ve heard. So as a good cop I’ve challenged that statement.

“I beg your pardon?”

“He never swore a true oath to keep the Queen's peace and in his attempt to gain more power he hurt you in a way that, had there been any supervision, it would not get overlooked and covered up by the farce of sequestration by a ghost.”

I had no idea how he knew all this but I was healthily worried about all this.

“Look. I … have no idea what you’re talking about. My face? I get that I’m the talk of the department but that was an acid attack,” I rambled.

He held up his hand to silence me. 

“I know the official version. Was it the truth, I wouldn’t be here. But Chorley is a practitioner of the blackest of magic and you’re just the first victim after many years who survived it.”

“Black magic? That’s racist. He’s as white as you are,” I countered, my brain unwilling to process the data it was receiving. 

Mr Well-Dressed paused, reconsidering.

“I’m sorry, what would be the better term?”

Now, this was much easier to respond to.

“It’s not the 80s and Dungeons and Dragons. The police deal with ethically challenged people all the time now.”

My face was getting eerily itchy under the mask. Nervousness, I guessed. Thankfully, Mr Handsome continued speaking instead of me.

“Right. A ghost did not steal your face. An ethically challenged wizard attempted to get more powerful and you were the collateral damage in that. I wish to help you reverse the damage done to you,” he said solemnly. 

I looked him in the eyes. They had a nice greyish colour. And I sincerely wanted to accept his offer, because what he was saying was like a lifeline in front of me, something to pull me out of the gutter, light at the end of the tunnel. But I was hurt, unwilling to pay more. And Mr Well-Dressed and Handsome did not state the price for his help. It just seemed too good to be true.

“Pass,” I replied. “I have no idea who you are. And my doctor should be on her way here.”

The man nodded and checked his watch.

“Then may I ask you a favour? Do not mention me to Chorley’s apprentice or anyone else. I’d rather keep my friends safe for a while longer.”

I nodded in assent, while he turned around to leave.

“Who are you anyway?” 

“Thomas Mellenby,” he replied and then he _levitated_ a business card into my hand. So a wizard himself, and probably giving me also a fake name. “If you change your mind or you simply want to learn more about anything, contact me. I might not be available at all times but I will get back to you.”

I sneak a look at the business card. There was no name, just a number and a picture of a bird.

“For what it’s worth, Mr Grant, I am sorry for what’s happened to you,” he said and before I could ask anything else, he slipped out the door.

Thirty seconds later, my therapist arrived. We greeted each other, I hid Mellenby’s business card in my pocket, and afterwards, I spent a nice half an hour talking about stuff that had nothing to do with the supernatural.


	2. Chapter 2

When I got back home from dinner at my parents’ place, I spent the first few minutes tetrissing all food containers mum packed for me in the fridge. Even though it’s been a while since I moved out post surgeries, she still had lots of those ‘I have to take care of my baby’ moments. Given how much that saved me on takeout, I did not complain. Much.

I suspected I got this apartment instead of hush money. It was not as if I could walk around and talk about how a ghost ripped off my face, but I wasn’t complaining. It was tiny. A hallway you could barely take your coat off in, a room that served as kitchen and living room, because there was both the fridge and the couch there, plus a small separate bedroom that barely fit a bed and a wardrobe. At least the bathroom was big enough to fit one of those smaller washing machines so that took care of the laundry. But it was mine to take off my mask in, and the rent was something I could afford.

So the next thing I did was to take off my mask, a solid piece of plastic with holes for my eyes, so that I could see, and nose, only so that I could breathe. There was not much of face left, my lips and jaw were a barely functional mess. There was not even much sensation left there, most of the nerve endings were simply torn and I barely felt heat or cold. It took me quite the time before I could wash my face without covering the mirror first. Now I enjoyed the freedom of whenever I could.

Yet, all the privacy in the world didn’t help me fall asleep when the night came. Missing chunks of your last year did that. So I got dressed again, grabbed my police ID just in case someone would feel offended or threatened by my masked face and went out for a walk.

I loved London. After the first surgeries were done and I was once again coherent enough to consider my future, they asked me whether I have any relative in the countryside and politely recommended me that I moved there, perhaps to a place near Plymouth or maybe even Wales. It was an offer I, as politely as I could, refused. There was no way I would leave London, my family and friends, my job or just the city itself.

It was especially nice at night. During the day I preferred cycling. I tossed away all my worries when I realized I could curse the drivers and they would get mortified when they realized that there was a masked black guy on the bike next to them instead of whoever they were expecting. Like many other cities, the number of bike lanes was slowly growing, but cycling in a city was an adrenaline sport. Which served me just fine, since I usually spent my whole day in a cubicle hidden from everyone else, doing boring paperwork or making phone calls with people who would never see me.

But at night, stretching your legs was even better. Sometimes, I put on sweatpants and a hoodie and went running, but today had been physically exhausting enough and I opted for a walk, wearing my favourite jacket instead.

As I patted down my pockets to check that I still had my keys, I found a business card in one of them.

I didn’t have much time to check that card when I received it, but now I caught myself wondering what bird was the picture depicting. I certainly did not recognize it. It looked like a drawing from an old textbook, all watercolours, and the numbers were just black. The paper was high quality, no cheap thing you’d get if you just wanted to have some cards to hand out in case people want to get in touch with you. No. He wanted to make an impression.

It made me wonder how rich you needed to be to qualify as a wizard, or if they genuinely knew how to transform other things into gold. Chorley was rich enough, and so obviously was this Thomas Mellenby. But since Lesley was recruited, and she was not from a very rich family, I guessed it was the latter.

I copied the business card and the wizard's name into my small black notebook (old habits die hard), just in case I would lose it, and set off home.

I slept like a log and snoozed my alarm twice, before I remembered yesterday and my plans.

The first thing I’ve done when I got to work was, contrary to my wishes, my work. I found some free time during lunch break, when everyone had left, to look up my visitor.

Predictably, there were some guys with this name in London, but no one fit my description and the profile pictures on Facebook did not match.

But since he asked me not to mention him to Lesley, because he expected her to talk, I wrote down Martin Chorley’s name, just to see what our systems knew about him.

Detective Chief Inspector Martin Chorley was born in 1966 to a wealthy family. Graduated from Oxford University in 1980 and went on to have a very quick rise through the police career ladder. Married, one daughter aged fifteen. More of a politician than a cop. I learned that Chorley owns quite a collection of sports cars, and his wife is more than successful in the real estate industry. He took charge of The ESC in 1995. I checked his picture again. He looked quite young and well kept, despite being in his mid-fifties now. One more thing I could blame both on money and magic.

The Economic and Special Crime unit got me interested. No one talked about them much, or at all, it was always so hush-hush around anything extraordinary. Cops hated weird, especially the older ones.

The Economics and Special Crime unit was officially annexed by the MET in 1945. I couldn’t find anything about their previous existence, as if they were founded post-war. But judging by their nick being that Georgian terrace at Russell Square, I found that hard to believe. I also found it funny they called their nick the Folly in all documents.

Now, Chorley was only the third person to lead that unit, and it seemed to be an until-you-die kind of job, almost, judging by the records. In 1995 he took over from Geoffrey Wheatcroft, who was listed as a consultant, but was given a rank so that he could official boss around a few people. The previous person in charge was Captain Thomas Nightingale, a decorated WW2 veteran whose record was classified.

No help there.

I tried for obituaries. Wheatcroft passed away three years ago of old age. There was a picture of him and he was just one of those rich white guys. Captain Nightingale’s obituary from 1980 was much more interesting. He died in a fire when some rogue group of hooligans decided to toss few molotovs into The Folly.

I was just about to open the picture attached to the obituary when Jeremy barged into the office carrying two giant milkshakes.

“Hey, Peter, don’t tell me you’ve spent the whole break here again? You have to get out from here sometimes, I swear the guys are no wussies and are okay with you eating with us,” he rattled off and placed one of the milkshakes on my desk. “Strawberry,” he clarified

“Thanks, mate,” I replied. “I just want to finish this and clock out early. Just because I work short hours doesn’t mean I get to work less.”

That made him laugh.

“And here I thought that they’re keeping you here just so you don’t dazzle other departments with your charm,” he replied in a good-hearted tone.

I closed the search engine and grabbed my milkshake.

“Nah, it’s so that I don’t tell the world about the ghost and skeletons in the Met’s closet,” I said, matching his joking mood. Little did he know how serious I was.

But it seemed a good enough joke for us to continue bantering until Patrick arrived with his coffee and we all got back to work.

*

I elected not to think about anything for at least a week or the next time I see Lesley, which I planned to be even later, but my spooky-o-meter started screaming only three days later when I got my next case to overview. Marked with the ESC unit’s stamp and redacted by even the pathologist, the file was about a more than horrendous series of murders. Allegedly, a lady killer went out killing men by cutting off their penises and leaving them to bleed out. It made me cringe. I did not envy the guys at the crime scene.

They called her the Pale Lady, because she was pale and dark-haired, and looked like a woman. There was also no one to identify her body, which our X-files unit took care of delivering to the morgue. I wondered if the high mortality of culprits, or whether that was just a recent phenomenon the wizards were encountering. There must have certainly been a reason for this behaviour and I felt uncomfortable with the stamp of a psychopath on this file. It set a very bad precedent.

Incidentally, there were few recordings of her outside of the murder scenes so I decided to watch that, while no one was looking. The written assessment seemed off to me. She did not seem to be hunting in either of the recordings. One even showed her trying to avoid the victim. No video showed her carrying a knife. Neither was she carrying a purse or anything resembling a backpack.

I wondered whether I should ring Lesley again, and then I decided against it.

Last time she gave me a whole speech about the Folly hunting monsters and taking care of us mere muggles. I did not need that right now.

Instead, I decided to have a break and go out for a coffee. And I was so lost in my thoughts in my way from the cafeteria, carrying my to-go mug full of fake bitter liquid energy, that I’ve almost walked into the statuesque frame of DCI Alexander Seawoll.

“Grant, right? Assigned to CPU?” he asked me while I tried and eventually succeeded in gaining back my balance.

“Yes, sir,” I nodded.

Here’s the thing, I’ve been told that during all the madness last year, I shot this guy with a tranquillizer gun. How did I get it? How did I manage to tranquillize a Viking bigger and taller than me? I had no clue and in all honesty, I didn’t want to find out. I just wanted him not to remember it.

“How are you, Grant? Going to therapy as assigned?”

He sounded calm. Last time I heard he was a cantankerous bastard. This didn’t make any sense.

“That’s good. You have good cop instincts, Grant. It’s a damn shame the posh wankers pilfered May away from the Murder squad,” he said while shaking his head and then he added, “You didn’t hear me say that. Chorley’s right bastard when someone dares to criticize him.”

“Say what, sir?” I asked dutifully.

“That’s a lad,” he nodded.

I clutched my coffee mug between us like a feeble shield while he looked at my mask.

“Can I do anything for you, sir?”

Seawoll did not hesitate to order me right away.

“Call the bird guy. He’s weird but you can trust him.”

I wanted to frown, but my face did not obey, and even if it did, it wouldn’t show beneath the plastic. So I had to ask.

“Who, sir?”

“The bird. He told me he said hello to you some time ago. He’s one of ours. So stop fucking around where the computer activity is logged and ask the source,” he added and it stunned me silent. So the guy who gave me a business card with a picture of a bird on it was, in fact, someone the MET knew? I did not get to ask more, because Seawoll just set off to the coffee machine.

“Keep up with the therapy and be careful, Grant. Now off you go, I believe we don’t pay you for standing around!”

You could rely on your superior officers to make it look like you are wasting their time even if you’re doing your job and listening to them. I chose a quick retreat to the depths of CPU offices and spent the rest of my workday there in hiding.

*

Usually, I got off work at a reasonably rush 4 o’clock, just early enough to bike through the traffic like a madman in a mask that I was and be at my parent’s place for dinner. I locked my bike, fairly certain that no one around here would steal it, not because I was the creepy cop in a mask, but because they are terrified of my mother. I’d be worried too if I still lived here.

As I was walking up the stairs to my parent’s place, I dialled up Mellenby’s number. Nobody answered and instead, it went straight to voicemail with default pre-recorded message. I pocketed my phone and used my keys to get in. Mum was just taking a casserole out of the oven.

“Took you long enough! Go take off that slab of plastic, dinner’s almost ready,” she said instead of greeting. I was ineffably grateful she never shied away from my ruined face.

“You’re my son, Peter, no matter what. No, stop all the nonsense, you can still make a cup of tea even if you slobber a bit when you drink it,” she had said while I was still recuperating and this no-nonsense attitude was what kept me getting up some mornings. She also insisted on feeding me every other day, which is something you can’t really complain about.

I left my mask off, we shared dinner, I returned last time’s food containers and instead got a set of full ones and took off home.

Just a casual Wednesday.

As I was carrying my bike upstairs, my phone rang. I waited before closing my apartment door behind me and resting my bike against the wall, before answering.

“Good evening, Mr Grant,” a voice as posh as I remembered greeted me. “What can I do for you?”

“You said if I have any more questions, I could get in touch with you,” I said, trying to catch my breath. I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of the wizard.

“Would you be open to a face to face meeting? I could pick you up in about thirty minutes,” Mellenby offered. I thought about it. I had an afternoon shift tomorrow and just a therapy late in the morning.

I accepted.

He then named a crossroads right in front of my apartment block where I should wait for him.

“Are you stalking me?” I asked.

He laughed.

“Your address is hardly secret,” he said and hung up.

I used my thirty minutes of free time for making myself more presentable, after biking all over London, I wasn’t the freshest daisy. Yet, even freshly dressed, I felt restless, so I spent remaining time walking around the flat messing around, before hitting the twenty-five minute time mark.

I checked that my mask is on, looking like an oily blotch in dim light, double-checked my pockets for necessities and headed out.

I heard him before I saw the lights. An easy task, given that this area gets relatively dull after 10 pm. The rumble of an engine sounded quite unlike the cars I ever got to drive. When he pulled over, I found out why. The wizard was driving a silver Jaguar, one of the very old ones. All he needed was a mostly naked woman on the passenger’s seat and he would make a credible James Bond.

He left the car just to greet me and maybe show off his plum windowpane suit.

“Mr Mellenby,” I greeted him.

“Please call me Thomas. Would you care to join me for a drive?”

I agreed, but I did not offer him my first name.

We got in and took off.

“Lovely car,” I said, finally able not to drool on the leather seats. The more I looked around the more impressed I was.

“Thank you. Now, I’m going to take us on a drive around London. While I drive, you get to ask your questions. Then I’ll drive you back home. Is that alright with you?”

I nodded and then voiced my approval, because he was focused on the road. Time for the interrogation.

“How do you know where I live?” I asked.

“Both your parents’ place in the Kentish Town and your address in Camden Town are public knowledge for anyone in the Met,” he responded matter-of-factly.

“Which you’re not.”

“Not anymore, indeed. But DCI Seawoll is as you’ve had the pleasure to learn.”

“He said you can be trusted,” I mused, not really watching the road. Mellenby said nothing.

“Can you help me fix my face?” I asked.

We stopped at a red light and my driver sighed, looking ahead.

“There are ways I can glamour myself. Make you believe you’re seeing a different face than mine. There are ways how to heal smaller injuries, how to speed up the healing process in one part of your body, but it has the side effect of extreme fatigue. It still takes time and lots of rest to make any progress possible.”

“That is all only if I knew how to do magic.”

“Anyone can, with the right training and enough willpower.”

“Are there any other options?”

He stole a look at me.

“I know a practitioner who specializes in healing. I’ve seen her successfully cure AIDS and cancer, reattach limbs, grow new eyes. It would be a very long and painful process and it wouldn’t come cheaply.”

Of course, there was a catch to it.

“Well, if you can give me a bill I can argue with my insurance company about paying it.”

The car started to move again, the engine purring in a calming way.

“It’s not about money. You might need to learn some tricks of this trade. And we want to get into the Folly.”

I snapped and turned to stare at him, but Mellenby just kept on driving, as if he didn’t just ask me to be a mole.

“You call her a practitioner. What is that?”

“A person, who practices this craft.”

“So you’re a practitioner. And so is Chorley. And Lesley, Lesley May, too. And so is this healer-lady.”

I turned my head to stare at the night city. It looked beautiful.

“Show me,” I asked.

He turned to me momentarily and I envied him the raised eyebrow for much longer.

“Show me some magic,” I asked and then I added one please and his first name. It seemed to do the trick.

“Why do you need to see, Peter?” he replied, his voice calm and steady like a seasoned soldier’s hand.

“I know that my mate is learning that stuff and I need to know that all of this is real. That you mean it,” I explained. I guess it was enough because the next thing he pulled over. I noticed we were still very close to my place, as if he was unconsciously expecting me to want to run home anytime soon.

“Do you have your phone on you?” he asked as he killed the engine.

I nodded.

“Please turn it off and remove the battery. Unfortunately, magic doesn’t agree with electronic devices,” he explained. I did as he instructed.

The insides of the car went almost dark. The dim street lamps outside gave barely enough light to show me he was rising his hand.

Then he opened his palm and a tiny sun-like orb illuminated his face. I swear I could hear a high noise in the background, like a melody played out on piano, and I suddenly tasted snow in the autumn air.

“Fuck me, that’s beautiful,” I breathed out.

Mellenby just smiled at me.

“Would you like to see more?” he offered, and at that moment, staring at the magical light I felt like agreeing to almost anything.

“Yeah, I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I've been told that there are no bike lanes in London. Well, I certainly wouldn't know but TfL website gives some routes. Otherwise, adrenaline sport?  
Secondly, I have no idea how time works both IRL and in stories. So if you spot inconsistencies, please let me know so I can fix them.  
Also, thanks everyone who's commented, you've made me kick my ass and write this part.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta-reader is magic.

I stared at the perfect ball of light as if it were a palantír and I was expecting Sauron's eye to get me. But it didn't happen. It was pure, white, like what Galadriel had given to Frodo to help him on his journey. I was mesmerized and drawn to the structure I was starting to see beyond the light, in the light. Sharp disappointment tugged at me when Mellenby eventually closed his palm and the light disappeared. I felt like not only the brightness but also something more important yet intangible vanished from in front of me. 

"What do you want me to do?" I asked, my mind running a million miles an hour. 

He let his hand drop and I could feel the full weight of his gaze on me.

"I will not ask you to do anything you are unwilling to do. If you would rather go to a surgeon, I hear they can do marvellous things nowadays," he started beating about the bush, but I cut him off impatiently.

"What do you want me to do?" I repeated my question more forcefully.

"Ideally, get yourself a standing invitation to the Folly. Now, I am well aware of Folly's wards, so that might not be an option. One time visit, where you get to walk around and do some things there and carry something out, that would be a good thing too. I'll be happy with one more person who can see what's going on and doesn't get scared of a … an ethically challenged practitioner."

So he had plans for me, but he didn't want to share yet. I could live with that. 

The inside of the car felt claustrophobic when I asked my next question.

"What do I have to do to learn magic?"

He gave me an assessing look. 

"You can study when a qualified doctor says it's safe for your brain. If it's alright with you, I could arrange a meeting right after your next therapy session." His reply conveyed he had been expecting my interest. 

I wished I could frown enough to communicate my confusion, but once again, not even the tilt of my head was enough.

A physical examination to study? I don't remember Les getting one when she was assigned to the ESC."

Mellenby scoffed. 

"I doubt current occupants value each other enough to warrant such a thing. Magic is dangerous," he said as if I weren't already aware of that. Ghosts and magic had ripped off my face. I knew the risks of it first-hand. 

I was mulling over what else to ask when he checked his watch. I spied old Omegas, probably silver and wind-up, judging by the age, definitely worth more than twice my monthly income. 

"Your evening walks are usually about over. I know you must have about a thousand questions now, but I must insist we continue tomorrow. I have another appointment soon." 

I nodded and looked around. 

“Just one more question, please."

"If you must," he acquiesced.

"What’s up with the car? If you’re in hiding, this is not the most inconspicuous ride.”

“Well, one very smart man once figured out how to apply a perception filter to objects, so unless I decide otherwise, suspicion slides off it like water off ducks,” he explained, somehow managing to keep his face expressionless.

“You’re a nerd!” I exclaimed in shock.

He shook his head.

“No, I just spend my free time with them. Goodnight, Peter,” he laughed and bid him the same and got out of the car to watch him drive off.

And that moment, I could have had Lesley call with her promises and vain attempts to fix anything or everything, and I would have refused. I had a fireball shaped beacon of hope imprinted in my memory and nothing's ever shone brighter.

*

I almost couldn’t bear the boredom of the next day. Thefts, vandalism, a few people waving around knives until some PC could put the fear of law in them.

I understood the necessity of this all, and that this is what the world is, but after last night, everything seemed unbearably mundane and my curiosity was killing me. I wanted to run and get the wizard to be my Obi-Wan Kenobi and teach me all and save me from the things I had to focus on otherwise.

Although, I was beginning to suspect he might be more of my Yoda - show me some cool stuff and then sod off into the force, leaving me with only a mighty quest.

Another thing that bothered me was, that while he seemed to know about me everything he could dig up in any police files, all I knew was that he was a self-proclaimed ethical practitioner. That was hardly enough, but I didn't yet get the chance to ask more, understandably more focused on his 'I can help you get back your face' speech.

Fortunately, I was working only a short shift, with a therapist meeting scheduled after lunch. I used the lunch break to relax or, you know, find some zen in my life. Believing in ghosts and magic generally did not make you seem sane and the last thing I needed was me rattling off something inappropriate. I ended up talking about my passion for architecture and the cool book I'd been reading before sleep instead of browsing social sites. When asked about my social life, I proudly presented my outing with colleagues, planned birthday-cinema-friend-date with Lesley, and regular meetings with my parents.

"Here's the thing, I expected to be just going through the motions, because these were the orders and I had nothing besides the orders. But now I'm really glad I'm meeting the people. Don’t take me wrong, it still makes me scared. Sometimes so much I almost want to run away. But I think I'm getting better," I told my therapist and she nodded.

"I'm very happy to hear that," she replied and then asked me about my plans for the future. I tried to be as vague as possible.

After I left her office I was stopped in the corridor by a tall gingery doctor in his fifties.

"Abdul Haqq Walid," he introduced himself with the Scottish lilt that fit his face but in no way matched the name. But who was I to judge.

"Salem," I nodded. This must have been the doctor's appointment necessary to get into magic lessons.

"Al salam alaikum," said Dr Walid, shaking my hand. "Our mutual friend got you an appointment with me, in case you are available."

I agreed, so he ushered me to a different floor to an empty office to interview me about my health. I mechanically answered all the easy questions and he consulted my chart for the rest.

"So you want to learn what Thomas does," Dr Walid stated, instead of asking.

I nodded and he proceeded to pull up MRI scans. To get the basics done first, he said.

"This is a healthy brain," he pointed at the first one. There was, as far as I could see, a normal head full of brain, with some marks of activity. Then he showed me several more pictures. "These are brains on magic. Do you see how there's basically just fried artichoke instead of working organ here? That's what magic does when you overdo it. Or when you are exposed to it too much."

I looked at the pictured dutifully, letting him believe he was terrifying me. Here's the thing, after your face turns to what I'd have described like Picasso meeting Sweeney Todd the first time I'd seen myself, nothing much could terrify you.

"Basically radiation. A little bit is everywhere, good for X-rays and a suntan, bad is Chernobyl," I summarized his lecture and let him stare at my blank plastic mask, trying to channel my Hannibal Lecter vibe as good as possible.

It did not upset him one bit. Later on, I found out that it was because he was used to staring at corpses or the human digestive system. A plastic mask was no big deal to him. Such a shame.

He also didn't flinch when I removed it for the MRI and shown him my more-scars-than-features excuse of a face. I got an extensive list of banned subjects near the machine so I opted for the path of least resistance, borrowed a set of scrubs from the good doctor, and wearing only and just that and nothing else, I let him scan my brain.

I did have to go through many examinations during rehabilitation and surgeries, but Dr Walid insisted on scanning my brain himself. To protect my privacy, he also claimed that my name wouldn't be attached to it publicly, it would get added to his private study of hyperthaumaturgical degradation. I did not care much, my doc was happily scanning me and testing me all the time, what was one more test if it stood between me and that magical star.

When I returned to see the results, dressed and masked again, Mellenby was already waiting there for me.

"Hello, Peter," he greeted me.

"Hi," I nodded at him and turned to Dr Walid. "So what's the verdict, doctor? Will I live?"

"You might, but nothing can be done for your sense of humour. The MRI is clear. If you follow all instructions and keep on coming for regular check-ups, you are free to go with Thomas now."

We spent a little more time chit-chatting before Dr Walid ushered us out to have peace and quiet for his work. I found myself sitting in the Jaguar again, this time enjoying it in the daylight. It looked well-kept, even though some wear and tear were starting to show. But that was to be expected. I googled the model while the wizard was driving and it turned out the car was Mark 2 from 1962. I was surprised that it wasn't in someone’s private collection or a museum and I dared to voice my thoughts only to get laughed at in return.

"It’s very practical, because magic fries all electronics," Thomas said as if it explained everything. I pressed for more information, while we progressed at a slightly faster than a snail pace through the afternoon traffic jam.

"As long as there are any transistors or microchips and you forget to unplug the battery, or when it's on, you'll end up replacing it very often. First time I fried our TV, David refused to speak to me for a week. Of course, then he had to figure out how much magic works at what distance," Mellenby said, his gaze focused on the road.

I kept silent, curious to hear more about the older man's life. Unfortunately, he did not continue with that topic despite me prompting him. He did offer something else. 

“I believe it’s time we got to know each other. Would you feel comfortable sitting in a café, or would you prefer more private settings?”

I considered his question just for a split second, then thought I was getting thirsty and I hated removing my mask around people.

“No public places.”

We ended up in Maughan library, the name of which you say a little bit like _morn_ when you can’t pronounce your r-s at all. Instead of taking the visitors’ entrance, we went through the back door, because every nice place has a backdoor for the help, and then I was led downstairs to a strangely fancy room. It breathed history and for a second I imagined elderly white guys in black suits sipping their drinks and smoking their whiskey while debating The Great War, while soldiers stood at attention beside the door. Then I looked around the room again. There were two big leather couches, heavy brocade curtains around fake windows that were in fact bookshelves full of books that looked at least twice as old as I was, heavy wooden furniture, old carpet that looked professionally cleaned recently, tiny kitchenette in a corner with a sink and what looked like a gas stove and a kettle, and nice panelling around the room to make it look cosy. Old money at its best use.

“You stopped when you entered. Why?” Thomas inquired, standing by my right side.

I opened my mouth to describe my feelings but no words came out. 

“No answer is silly here, if you are worried about that,” he tried to placate me.

“I felt like I could see men in top hats smoking cigars and talking to each other. Some old music, classical, playing in the background. It feels very old.”

Thomas nodded with approval.

“That was _vestigia_. Plural. Imprints of magic and history caught in the walls of this place. I’m afraid this is the only insulated room available on such short notice, but it will serve us well. We’re underground and layers of concrete and metal shield the outside world from any magic indoors, as long as the door is closed. The advantage is, that you might use your time upstairs getting any literature you like, and no one will suspect a thing,” he explained, waving his hand around like a guide in a museum.

“Well then, shall we take a seat and begin?”

I was still too stunned by it to form a coherent answer. While I did want to study a fancy university to become an architect, I never thought my Harry Potter dreams could come true way past my teens. I voiced that thought and got a soft understanding smile in return.

*

That night I went home with a book written by no other than Isaac Newton, who wasn’t just The Guy in our muggle science but he was for reasons beyond me also a wizard. I also went home with some hands-on homework that was all about making a light like was demonstrated for me back in the car. I was also cautioned to try doing magic in a safe environment where I couldn’t fry anything or myself by actually succeeding. 

Thomas (who insisted I call him by his first name) explained to me the tradition of Newtonian magical education, to which I replied that in no situation I’ll be calling him my master. I would call that our first disagreement that I fortunately won with no struggles.

There were many things about safety that I had to listen to and nod, most importantly the notion that I must under no circumstances share any of what I learn with anyone. 

When asked why, Thomas let himself be persuaded to explain.

“I am officially dead. I’ve also managed to hide something from Chorley. His predecessor has killed to get it and I have no doubt Martin would be willing to do the same or even more if he found out how to get to it.”

I asked him what the thing was and he just shook his head.

“If you don’t know about something, you can’t talk about it,” he replied resolutely. 

What I didn’t learn about his reasoning was outweighed by the number of fascinating things about the real world he showed me instead. He spoke about creatures and intelligent beings, about the politics of demimonde of London and the rest of the world, about which he knew proportionally less, like a good Londoner.

As I was reading my Newton 101 he explained more.

“It’s not that difficult to get into a position of power. The trick is to stay there. When Wheatcroft took over the Folly, he did so with a gunshot to someone’s back and a scindere. That in itself is something constable May is capable of nowadays. The trick is in how he kept his power. The number of influential men he and his associates controlled or catered for was the key. It’s not just Chorley who’s dangerous anymore. He has many friends and apprentices. The Folly unit now consists of more than just a single wizard and a help, although it is less than what it was before the war. Now, they are crime-solving policemen. Except they occasionally cover up their own crimes, which is quite hard to prove, when they can make things disappear with their mind.”

I learned that there used to be over three thousand English practitioners throughout the Empire before they were mostly wiped out during the Second World War. Only a few were left, mostly too old or suffering a bad case of PTSD. They broke their staves and gave up the art and mostly lived until the old age got them.

I asked Thomas about how he learned magic. I was curious whether he was he also a cop who got promoted to some special ranks or what. 

I was then very happy for my mask holding my jaw, when Thomas explained he started studying magic in a boarding school sometime before the archduke of Austria had been assassinated.

“Are all practitioners this long-lived?” I asked after doing some meme-worthy calculation and swallowing all the Hogwarts jokes.

“Not usually. I’m a unique case. I started ageing in reverse somewhere around the sixties or seventies. It took me a while to notice that the wrinkles are disappearing, but you know what they say about gift horses,” he said and shrugged his shoulders.

Well, for a centenarian he looked that he was in a very good shape and I got where that sentiment was coming from. Sadly, that was where his personál input ended.

Our sessions in the library provided me with the best of covers. No one dared to bother me when browsing, except for one case that got easily solved by my DID card. No one could accuse me of being a terrorist when I carried both police and disability ID cards. 

I also took up an online course in art, all the better to collaborate with the Art & Fraud department, and I also started to spend more time with Duolingo instead of watching Doctor Who - quite regrettably since I really loved a good sci-fi or fantasy - but when weighed against real magic I was easily persuaded. 

Especially since I succeeded at creating my own _lux_, a ball of light that at first burned my hand, until I learned how to control it a bit. 

A few weeks of being an apprentice (I really wanted to call myself a padawan but I was told that he will not teach me any sword-fighting so I might as well forget it right away) flew by fast. My dad had another successful gig, my colleagues, and even before Thomas told me he managed to schedule a meeting with the healer-practitioner, I felt as if I’ve found a new friend I could talk with. Our nightly short vestigia-spotting walks around London promoted that greatly.

The day of the outing with Lesley came earlier than I was ready for it. I was full of new experience, so I did several of the breathing exercises my therapist always talks about to make myself relax and be more ready to face her without telling on my new friend. Because I would. I missed my mate a lot and I tended to let my mouth run. But, while I was a cop dedicated to my job, I was also getting sceptical after many strange things I had heard from her.

We decided to go to the cinema together first, just to reacquaint ourselves with new gossip without the necessity of her looking at my masked face. I knew I was making her uncomfortable, luckily she was never one to back off just because she was uncomfortable. Before the film started, I wished her happy belated birthday and gave her a present and in return, I got a hug. She was still a mate. 

After a mediocre sci-fi that didn’t even have a good space ship battle, we went out for a pint – in her case fancy cocktails with enough alcohol for us both while I was having a soda like a good boy, who was still being medicated. 

“So, can you finally tell me more? I’m literally dying of curiosity here. Let me live vicariously through you,” I begged her.

But no matter what, her refusal seemed unyielding.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” she said as she looked me in the eye. Her tone lacked any teasing or playfulness. I backed off and asked her about her love life instead. She was at that stage of chatty drunk that guaranteed a hangover the next day, but it meant she was getting willing to answer. 

“That is something your bosses can’t prohibit you from talking about, right?” I joked.

She snorted, it was less attractive than when a female character on telly did it, but she was still pretty awesome.

“Well, I’ve been seeing a guy, on and off,” she admitted.

“Where did you meet?” I asked, trying to sip my soda through a straw as gracefully as possible with my mask on.

Lesley waved her hand.

“Around. He was a source at first, but he’s pretty useless except for the one thing. Which is what I want him for and he’s cool with it.”

I nodded understandingly and Lesley was courteous enough not to ask me about my non-existent love life. So I asked her about his name and more about him. Turns out Zach was part of demimonde – the supernatural community around – by being half-fae or something, she did not want to go into detail about. But she was in a mood to explain the demimonde to me, when I asked my questions, so I did my best to pretend ignorance and let her school me. It seemed to me she really needed to vent freely to an independent third party.

“We keep the community in check. While other PCs run around catching common robbers and thieves, we take care of the other side of London. We also liaise with the rest of the country, but it’s because our numbers are not as high as we need. The guy who annexed our unit to the Met was stupid enough to think he could take care of everything. The previous head shared his idiotic ways, but Chorley knows that you simply have to be at places to investigate there. It’s a bummer. It just takes so long to learn everything. Used to be close to ten years, but I was always a smart girl, so I might be done faster,” she grinned at me and I got goosebumps from it. 

“England needs it,” she continued. “Other countries have some practitioners cooperating with the government but we spent almost until the turn of the century to modernize. Meanwhile, all the creatures out there were left unchecked,” she explained, finishing her glass only to get a full one placed in front of her promptly.

“They believe in _arrangements_,” Lesley scoffed. Obviously, there was something wrong about it in her opinion. I didn’t have enough data yet to cast any judgement, but I did make a mental note to ask Thomas about it later. 

“Some of them haven’t changed since before Shakespeare. They’ve been lawlessly running around for ages and think they can self-police. They’re mutants, dangerous when left unchecked. That’s what we stand for. We have to take care of the abominations. Find them and take care of them. Just like we did with the last one.”

For once, I was relieved that with the loss of my face Lesley also lost a way to read my emotions. 

“What the last one?”

“The girls sucking your jazz musicians dry of energy. We were lucky that Chorley was able to track them. London is now safer without them.”

I bit my tongue refraining from commenting and eventually we ended up discussing easy topics like celebrities and gossip from around the unit, until it was the time for her to get a cab home.

It took me until after I close my flat’s door to breathe out and release the tension I was holding. It turned out that London was fuller of monsters than I expected, but unlike what the practitioners of the Folly believed, not all of them were non-humans. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments keep me going. Thank you.


End file.
